


don't be scared, i love you

by usuallysunny



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Declarations Of Love, Established Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Lucifer, Literally 3k words of Chloe telling Lucifer how much she loves him, Praise Kink, Then 3k words of Lucifer telling Chloe how much he loves her, Trauma, set after 5x09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: "Youareimportant and youareenough," she whispers in the wake of a dinner that's left him devastated, "you are so loved, Lucifer.”Finally, his mouth twitches into a genuine smile. It’s a split of lips over white teeth, a glimmer of the sun.Clearly he enjoys her praising him — so Chloe decides to count the ways.-------Now with a second chapter where Lucifer returns the favour.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 47
Kudos: 577





	1. Chapter 1

They ride the elevator in silence, anger and grief rolling off him in hot waves.

Chloe can feel it, the crackle of electricity in the air, the rumble of sheer, unrivalled power. He normally keeps it so reigned in, wrapped up in impeccable three piece suits and hidden behind an easy smile that he hurls like a weapon; it’s easy to forget how strong he is. Now, in the wake of such a disastrous dinner, he seems unable to contain it.

He’s distressed, upset, and she wants more than anything to make him feel better.

They stay silent as the elevator doors whistle open and he steps into the penthouse first, leaving her bathed in the half-glow of soft yellow light. She takes a breath and follows, trying to shake off the feeling that she’s walking into battle.

His actions are predictable as he heads straight to the bar and pours himself a glass of undoubtedly expensive whiskey. His eyes are steely but his hands don’t shake as he quickly downs the contents. There’s a flash of white as he lets out a little hiss through his teeth, but it looks like the amber liquid sliding down his throat does nothing to soothe his temper.

He pours himself another and then pours her a glass of rosé. She doesn’t need to ask and he already knows what she likes; there’s an easy sort of familiarity between them that comes from years of knowing and trusting each other. She wordlessly takes the glass from him and hopes he finds _that_ comforting at least.

The air is thick with tension, heavy with the weight of everything that had happened at the restaurant. Chloe can still feel it, still see it, the differing reactions of everyone at the table.

When she was seven, she thought her family dinners were dysfunctional. Her mother always drank too much, either passing out before dessert, or drunkenly forcing her to practice lines for the next audition she didn’t want. Her kind but easily overpowered father always looked on with a tight smile and Chloe wished for a normal family.

Now she’s thirty seven, and returning from a dinner where God himself had passed her the salt, Chloe realises just how normal her family was.

She wonders when her life became so _insane,_ and she glances at Lucifer again.

There’s pain etched across his face as he leans over the bar, but he’s still beautiful, and the _when_ doesn’t matter when he’s the _why._ She’s here because she loves him, wholly and completely, and accepting him comes hand in hand with accepting his crazy, celestial family.

She takes a sip of wine and it does little to soothe the dryness in her throat. She’s angry too, angry at the harsh words that had been thrown at him, the unfairness of it all, the coldness with which he was treated. As a mother, she can’t imagine treating Trixie that way—and so many of his eccentricities, of his many, _many_ issues make sense to her now. 

The way he flinches at a hug, the way he'd begged _"don't, please"_ when she'd touched his scars, the impenetrable walls he keeps locked around himself, hiding behind humour and sex, and how he runs away when things get too real… she gets it. _Daddy issues, abandonment issues_ … they don’t even scratch the surface of his psychological damage.

She understands now why Linda finds him so fascinating, but he’s not a case to her. He’s not a patient. He’s the man she loves and she wants to understand him for _that_ reason.

She puts the barely touched glass of wine down and walks over to him. She places a hand on his back and feels a wave of sadness at the way he flinches.

“Lucifer,” she murmurs, reminding him it’s only her—that she’s here, and she’s not going anywhere, and she loves him.

He blinks and clears his throat, straightening his spine.

He gives a prim little tug on his jacket and drinks his whiskey.

“I’m fine,” he says, low and gruff.

“You’re not fine,” she insists gently, “and that’s… _fine_. I get it—”

He laughs but there’s little humour in it.

“Trust me, Detective,” he starts, “there’s no way you _get it._ ”

His voice isn’t unkind, more incredulous, and she gently strokes her hand between his shoulder blades. The thickly banded muscles are knotted under her fingers, his stress easy to feel under tight, coiled up springs.

“Alright,” she concedes, “maybe not. But you can talk to me.”

A light scoff rolls from his throat again, as though it’s not that simple. She supposes it’s not. There’s no-one like him, no-one who’s been through what he’s been through, but that doesn’t mean he’s alone. She wants him to know that.

Something changes in him, the air shifting, as he slips on a charming grin and places his hands on her waist. He keeps his eyes on her face, dark and seductive, as he effortlessly lifts her onto the bar. She bites back a surprised gasp as he gently spreads her legs and steps between them. A shiver of anticipation curls through her belly. 

His fingers dance up her thighs, the light from the mirror behind him glinting off his ring. He leans in, all smoke and heat and expensive whiskey, and a shudder traces down her spine.

“I can think of a better use for my mouth,” he husks, his lips tracing the edge of her jaw.

He plants kisses along her jaw, to her cheek, before his mouth finally slots over hers.

She accepts the kiss, melting into him for a moment. His lips are soft and firm, his fingers biting at her waist and pulling her closer and a flush blooms under her skin at the knowledge of just what those hands can do. His tongue coaxes her lips open and she lets it sweep inside, letting out a little moan as it tangles with hers. She loses herself in his touch, her arms looping around his neck and her thighs cradling his hips.

She rocks into him a little, drunk on him, dizzy, but comes back to earth when he starts unbuttoning her shirt with quick, clever fingers.

“Lucifer,” she breathes as he tears his mouth away and starts planting hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her neck.

His low hum reverberates against her, the grit of his stubble sliding over her throat.

“Stop trying to distract me.”

He pauses at her order, his hands dropping to his sides with a sigh of defeat. He lifts his head from her neck to look at her, his eyes stormy and dark, but it’s not just lust that shines behind them. He’s still looking at her with that sinful expression, the air pulsing around him like something intoxicating because _this_ is what he knows.

He knows how to seduce and how to draw out the most complicated of desires, bending people to his will like a charmer hypnotises his snakes, but being truly vulnerable… he doesn’t know these rules.

He’s hurt and he wants comfort… and while Chloe appreciates his go-to response is sex, she doesn’t think that’s what he _really_ needs right now.

Everyone wants him, but she’s the only one who _loves_ him. He wants to be powerful and strong and _enough—_ but to her, he always has been.

“Darling, I don’t want to talk,” he mutters numbly.

She aches all over for him, her chest too tight and her throat too dry, and her hand comes up to cup his cheek.

“I know,” she says, “being vulnerable, admitting you’re not okay, admitting you need help… it’s not easy. But it’s _necessary_.”

He sighs, his head bowing, and his hands slip to her thighs. He keeps them there, curling his fingers around the muscles just this side of too tight. He holds on like she’s an anchor, keeping him from sinking into despair.

“I shouldn’t have gone,” he says then, “I knew he wouldn’t listen.”

She doesn’t need to ask who he’s referring to and that flicker of pain in her chest blooms into a full blown ache.

She hears God’s voice, flickering through her mind, booming but cold.

_“I will not apologise, Samael. You led a rebellion against me. You raged against your very name, my lightbringer, my son. You betrayed me. You deserved to be punished.”_

She hears Lucifer’s reply, his voice thin and desperate in a way she’d never heard before.

_“I wanted a chance at freedom. I wanted happiness—and you denied me both. I know I disappointed you, but you disappointed me too. Perhaps I did deserve to be punished… but banished to the depths of Hell for all eternity? I didn’t deserve that.”_

She hears Michael and sees Amenadiel too, the former smug and pious, the latter sad and conflicted but mostly very, _very_ tired. Maze had been there too and they _both_ feel the sting of her betrayal. Amenadiel had stayed quiet throughout, likely torn in two directions, between his loyalty towards his brother and the unconditional love he couldn’t shake off for his father.

Michael had tried to chip away at their fears, calling her a gift again, reminding her of their father’s manipulation, and when God opened his mouth to speak, Chloe had hissed “ _don’t you dare apologise to me. Don’t speak to me at all”._ Her love for the man next to her overshadowed her fear and she felt strong. It made Michael weak, like a piece of paper crumpled in her hand.

 _“I understand you’re angry, Miss Decker,”_ God had murmured, his fingers tapping absentmindedly along his wine glass, _“as you wish, I will not apologise to you either—and I do not see the need to. The way you defend my son is admirable. It’s what I wanted, after-all. I wanted you to find each other.”_

Her anger had flared, red hot and intense under her skin, and before she knew it, she was bravely raging at God himself.

 _"You might find this hard to believe, but this isn’t about you. I don’t care if you put us in each other’s paths, you also gave us free will. You gave us the ability to choose… and in this life or any other… I will always choose Lucifer. You have an amazing son and he's right here. He's always been right here—and you should be proud of him. Instead, you don't even seem to care. And you?”_ she turned to Michael, _“you’re pathetic. Trying to draw out fears when you’re the one who reeks of them. So scared of Daddy, scared of being broken, scared of never being as good as Lucifer. And you’re right, you never will be,_ ” she had caught the curl to his top lip, his anger and shame reflected there, and lastly, she turned to Amenadiel, her throat thick with tears, _“he loves you so much… and you have nothing to say?”_ his jaw had flexed tightly and he’d looked away and she had her answer.

“No-one has ever defended me the way you did tonight,” Lucifer murmurs then, his throat moving as he swallows thickly, “what you did for me… I’ll never forget it.”

She loops her arms around his neck, drawing him in for a hug. There’s the tiniest bit of resistance, a barely perceptible flinch. It’s the flicker of some trauma left behind, but he smothers it easily and loses himself in her embrace. Her fingers card through his hair as she holds him for a moment, before she slips down and off the bar.

She takes his hand and tugs him towards the couch. She loves how he follows her without question.

When his knees are touching the back of the seat, she gently pushes him down with a hand on his chest.

His brow arches as he waits for her next move.

She holds his broad shoulders and lowers herself into his lap. His mouth tips into that sultry grin again and maybe he thinks he’s off the hook, but her intention is still to talk.

“I’m so sorry for the way I acted when I saw your face,” she says quietly, her chest a little tight at the memory.

He stiffens under her, averting his gaze.

“You’ve already apologised for that, Detective,” he reminds her, “not that it’s necessary.”

“Humour me.”

He huffs, dragging his eyes to her again. He gives a short nod.

“I was scared,” she says, “I went to Rome and I studied everything I could get my hands on. I listened to Kinley because I needed evidence—when really, the evidence was right under my nose the entire time. I should have just trusted you because I _knew_ you. I _saw_ you… years before I saw your face.”

He stays quiet, but she can tell he’s listening, so she continues.

“The _real_ you. The man who made me laugh when I didn’t even realise I needed to. The man who literally went to hell and back for me, not that I knew it at the time, and the partner who always, _always_ had my back. The man who cared about my daughter as much as he cared about me, even if he pretended he didn’t, and the man I was so _sick_ of pretending I didn’t want.”

He huffs a laugh, the hurt starting to melt away from his expression.

“You certainly made me work for it.”

She laughs too, her hands coming to anchor themselves on his chest. She feels the steady beat of his heart under her palm and aches for it to be whole. She loves him so much, her own heart feels too big for her chest.

“What I’m trying to say… is I _know_ you. Tonight was painful and raw and I know you’re hurting, but you’re none of the things you think you are.”

There’s a flicker of uncertainty written across his features.

“It’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime,” he tries to smile but it’s melancholy and sad.

He’s probably thinking about that time he locked himself in his devilish form, drowning under guilt and self-loathing—but she brought him back then, and she’ll bring him back now.

“I know… but you need to listen to me when I tell you, you _are_ important and you _are_ enough. You are so loved, Lucifer.”

Finally, _finally_ , his mouth twitches into a genuine smile. It’s a split of lips over white teeth, a glimmer of the sun.

Clearly he enjoys her praising him—so Chloe decides to count the ways.

“I love how strong you are,” she trails a hand down his chest to make her point, feeling the solid muscle under her palm, “how brave and loyal. Sometimes I think you would rip the world apart just to get to me.”

“I would.”

She smiles at his easy reply, her hand coming up to touch his cheek. She feels the roughness of his stubble, the sharp edge to his jaw, before the pads of two of her fingers rest against his lips.

“I’ll get this one out of the way because your reaction is going to be _insufferable_ ,” she quips, rolling her eyes at his immediate grin, and she trails her fingers over every feature as she explains it, “I love how handsome you are. I love the way you make me feel when you look at me—the way you hold me and the way you kiss me and your ridiculously expensive three piece suits. I love the way you hold yourself with so much confidence, you just put everyone at ease. It makes me jealous sometimes, how much everyone wants you, and how I’m no exception.”

“Well, you’re only human, my darling,” he says before he quirks a playful brow and his eyes flicker pointedly to his lap, “you’re forgetting my best part.”

She scoffs, shaking her head softly, but she can’t deny she loves _that_ too.

“This?” she asks, her tone lined with faux innocence as she rolls her hips a little and feels his cock stir to life between her thighs.

“ _Yes_ ,” he husks on a little groan, his hands travelling to her hips, “I want you.”

“What do you want?”

He leans in and trails his mouth over her neck.

“Keep talking,” he begs.

Heat flares between her thighs before she obeys.

“I love how you never lie to me,” her eyes flutter shut as she tips her head back, giving him access to her neck, “even when the truth is hard. I love how you aren’t afraid to hurt my feelings with it, because you respect me enough to know I can handle it. I love how smart you are, a freaking _timeless_ fount of knowledge. I love how sharp you are, how you see things other people can’t. I love your kindness and your wit and your generosity. I love how funny you are, truly one of a kind. You’re ridiculous sometimes, totally _exasperating_ , but I still just always, _always_ want to be around you.”

She feels the curve of his lips against her throat as he places a kiss there. She imagines he can feel the movement of it too as she swallows, suddenly a little sadder.

“I love how you gave me time. You were so patient. First with Pierce, then after I ran away, then when I found out I was a gift from God. I meant what I said to your Dad tonight. It doesn’t matter. I would have found my way to you anyway. But you gave me space and in the end, you were still there.”

“You were worth the wait,” he says quietly.

She turns her face into the hand he has cupped over her jaw, placing a kiss on his palm.

Her mind suddenly sparks with a memory—

_“I am the Devil.”_

_“No, you’re not. Not to me.”_

—and she realises perhaps she _had_ known all along.

“You’re so good to me, Lucifer,” she says, “so good to Trixie. I’m sorry if your Father can’t see all these things, but to me? You’re perfect.”

He’s practically preening under the praise, his grief-stricken expression morphing into something light, and she has one more thing to say; one more thing she loves.

“I love _you_ ,” she whispers, “I am so in love with you.”

His inhale is a little sharp, his breath tight. She can feel it shudder a little under the palm she lays on his chest, and he brings his own up to cover it. His fingers grip around her wrist, a tight metal cuff.

“Chloe, I—” he falters, the rare use of her real name something painful and momentous, “—I want to say it.”

Her chest tightens at the heartbroken look on his face.

“I know,” she says gently, trying to soothe that frustrated furrow to his brow, the anger he feels at not being able to make that final jump. But she’s met the reason why now, she understands his psychological barriers and his fear of intimacy, and at the end of the day, they’re just words, “you will, when you’re ready. Until then, you show me all the time.”

He leans up to capture her lips in a soft kiss and _yes,_ that is one of the ways. She feels him pour everything into it. All the pain and anger, the tears he can never bring himself to cry, the things he can never bring himself to say, and all the self-hatred he’s harboured all his life… he gives to her.

He wants her to take it from him, to heal him, she’s the only one who can.

“No-one has ever loved me the way you do,” she whispers against his lips when she pulls away.

He nods, a little breathless, and she registers that he’s trembling underneath her.

“I do,” he husks in heavy agreement, “darling, I do.”

She leans down again, her fingers threading into his hair as she covers his mouth with hers. The kiss turns heated quickly, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth. He tastes like smoke and rich whiskey and something else that’s uniquely him, something heady and masculine.

Every swipe of his tongue, hot and slippery slick, lashes heat between her thighs. It doesn’t take long before it’s a full blown ache, her hips rolling to seek some friction. He groans into her mouth and she chases the sound, every nerve ending in her body fizzing. Lust snaps at her heels, her blood fire, his touch gasoline, and this time, when his fingers travel to her blouse, she doesn’t stop him.

In-fact, her own hands fly to his belt, her knuckles brushing over the notable hardness in his suit trousers, and he sucks in a breath over his teeth.

“Show me?” she requests breathlessly, now _welcoming_ this thing he does best. Now it’s not a distraction, but one of the ways he can articulate the depth of his feelings. It gives voice to that strange way he looks at her, with so much awe and reverence. Just as he’s only vulnerable around her, she’s only her true self around him. 

He’s all too happy to oblige, standing up with her wrapped around him, legs around his waist, as though she weighs nothing. He carries her to the bedroom, kissing her all the way.

She’s still angry at his Father, angry at Michael and Amenadiel and Maze, but as she thinks about their betrayal, she also thinks maybe it’s okay.

She loves him enough for all of them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It takes him a while to say it — but once he does, he can’t stop.

The Detective is suspiciously quiet.

He’s quiet too as they drive, the rumble of the Corvette powerful and smooth beneath him. The setting Californian sun glints off his ring, his fingers drumming a steady beat on the steering wheel, and he tears his eyes away from the road to spare her little glances.

He registers the tick to her jaw, the way a muscle near her ear leaps as she clenches it. He notices the way her brows are furrowed, the little sighs she probably doesn’t realise she’s making. When she starts to chew her thumbnail, he knows she’s truly anxious, and he can’t stand the thick tension anymore.

“Detective,” his voice is low and soft, but it still makes her jump, “are you alright?”

She blinks, as though she had been miles away.

“I’m fine,” she says, her voice hoarse from disuse and something else he can’t put his finger on.

They had been silent since they left the suspect’s house, a house he knew all too well. The woman happened to be one of his ex-flames, something that was less a coincidence, more an inevitability, given his very long list of exes.

She’d had an alibi for the night in question—but Lucifer’s quite sure it’s not frustration at a dead end that’s left the Detective so despondent.

_“Wait, you two are a couple?” the woman, Veronica, gapes, “that’s hilarious.”_

_He practically feels the Detective bristle next to him._

_“Not that it’s relevant or appropriate, but what’s so funny?”_

_“Nothing, it’s just…” Veronica turns to him, her brow arched, “from what I remember, you’re hardly a relationship sort of guy. You slept with, like, ten other people while we were together. I mean, I was there too and very much into it, but still—I can’t imagine you in a committed relationship. Didn’t you once tell me it was you who gave Oscar Wilde that quote, “bigamy is having one wife too many. Monogamy is the same?” I googled him and he’s from, like, the 1800s, so that’s totally weird, but whatever.”_

_He feels his jaw tick, a little twitch in his cheek. He doesn’t particularly care about his past. He’s certainly not ashamed of the orgies and the debauchery and the many, many sexual escapades he can’t even remember—but he can see how it’s making the Detective feel._

_She’s retreating into herself, that shuttered look sweeping over her face, her defences flying up around her._

_“Things change, my dear,” he smiles tightly—but Chloe is already gone._

He’d found her waiting in the car, arms crossed over her chest and sitting in the passenger seat.

As they turn a corner near her house, he feels the need to explain himself.

“You know, Oscar talked a good story,” he starts, “but he spent much of his life hopelessly in love with a British poet called Alfred.”

She makes a little, noncommittal noise—a hum from the back of her throat.

She doesn’t care about 19th century playwrights, ones that were his friends and lovers (definitely not the best time to mention _that_ ), and in the moment, neither does he.

All he cares about is _her_ , diffusing this weird tension between them, and then she’s furiously staring out of the window like she can’t bear to look at him.

“I wish you’d never been with her,” she follows the whisper up with a disbelieving scoff, shaking her head and looking up to the sky like it’s the most honest and most ridiculous thing she’s ever said, “I wish you’d never been with any of them.”

His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, a wave of sadness curling through his chest. He doesn’t know what to say because there’s really nothing he can do about that. He can’t take it all back.

He wants to comfort her, but he doesn’t know how.

Everything he wants to say, the depth of his feelings for her, drag from his chest to lodge in his throat.

“I—” _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ “—I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t seem interested in speaking anymore, her face still turned to the window, so he doesn’t try to say anything else.

Surely she must _know_ that she’s different, that the others can’t compare, but if she _doesn’t_ —if she doesn’t realise they’re his past and she’s his future, he’s not sure how to make it right.

He finds it impossible to express something he’s never felt before.

So they just drive on, close but never further apart.  
  


* * *

  
He stews on it for weeks.

Being confident and aware of how he feels isn’t the hard part. He doesn’t need any drunken hearts to hearts with Amenadiel to bring it out of him. He doesn’t need any long therapy sessions with Linda to understand it.

He knows he’s in love with her.

In his very long life, people have come and gone, but _she_ remains. His constant, while all else fails and waivers and rots.

The problem is telling her. The feeling sticks heavy in his chest, caught in his throat. She knows it too. She _understands_ him, the depth to his psychological trauma, the scars edged into his skin, too deep to to be visible.

No-one has ever known him the way Chloe Decker knows him.

The weeks go by and the case is closed but Veronica’s words still resonate in the gap between them.

He sees it in her eyes when old flames approach him at Lux, flaring angrily even as he gently turns them all away. He sees it when a still bitter Maze tries to chip away at her insecurities, making snide comments about his supposed inability to remain faithful and not-so-subtly reminding her of their own rolls in the hay—or rolls in the brimstone and ash, if he were being accurate.

He sees it now, as her spawn introduces them to the parents of a friend she’s made in the park.

“This is my Mom,” Trixie smiles happily, gesturing to the Detective, and then she’s pushing him forward by the small of his back. He lets out an outraged grunt and adjusts his cuffs, “and this is my step-dad, Lucifer.”

He pays the moniker no mind but the Detective stiffens next to him.

“Well, that’s not exactly—” she splutters as he smoothly holds a hand out and shakes the mother’s, then the father’s hand, “—he’s not her step-father, _per se_ … he’s… Lucifer’s my partner.”

The couple smile politely as Chloe’s cheeks burst into heat and he raises a brow. He doesn’t understand what’s got her so flustered, why the label bothers her when it doesn’t bother him. He’s never particularly cared for human labels anyway—gay, straight, fat, thin—step-dad or step- _devil_ , it’s all the same to him.

None of them are strong enough anyway; none of them speak to the monumental gravity of their relationship, because no-one’s ever had a relationship like it.

The couple shake the Detective’s hand and then look at him with that very familiar desire-laden gaze. Both of them, the man _and_ the woman, stare at him like _they_ want to call him daddy, and he tugs at his jacket with a sigh and despairingly wonders how to _turn this thing off._

He can’t imagine it will help with the whole _insecurity_ schtick—and when they all agree to sit down and share a picnic, there’s an empty ache in the pit of his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger.  
  


* * *

  
He hisses as her nails dig into his back, carving moon-shaped crescents into his skin.

The sound, low and guttural from the back of his throat, only seems to spur her on. He’s cradled between her thighs and they squeeze and tremble at his hips, her touch tinged with something he can’t put his finger on.

He thinks it’s desire, laced perhaps with desperation, and her nails try harder to mark him—like she wants to remind herself she’s the only one who can.

“Detective,” her title melts into a groan as she squeezes around him and shifts her hips _just like that_ , “— _Chloe_.”

She huffs, a little puff of air against his neck, and he lifts his head.

“Are you alright?”

She blinks and schools her expression into neutrality; she is a seasoned detective, after-all.

But he _knows_ her, inside and out, just like she knows him.

“I will be in a few minutes,” she drops her voice and tries her hand at being seductive, but it’s not quite his silken purr, and he sees straight through it.

Even though it kills him to do so, he pulls away and rolls onto his back next to her.

He sits up, back against the headboard, as she does the same, her eyes confused and a little hurt. His fingers itch for a cigarette, his throat for the scorch of whiskey, but he pushes the urges down.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, twisting so she’s sitting too. She clutches the sheets to her heaving chest. On his side, they rest over his lap in a pool of expensive silk.

He decides to bite the bullet and cut straight to the chase.

“It bothered you…” he starts, “what your offspring called me today.”

Her eyes are blank for a moment before they flicker with realisation.

“I thought it would bother _you_.”

“Why?”

She shifts a little uncomfortably.

“You’re not exactly the _paternal_ type,” she says on a little, breathless laugh, “I thought the commitment would scare you. To be honest, I was surprised it didn’t send you running out of the park and onto the first flight to Vegas.”

She’s joking, but this reminder of what had come before—his fear, his stupidity, how he had hurt her—it makes him flinch. That bridge is long mended but the memories remain and it stings a little, that she would use it against him now. It stings that she clearly still thinks about it.

She has scars too, it seems.

“Detective, what I did back then…” he starts quietly, “I would never do it again. It’s the most shameful thing in my life, how I hurt you.”

Her expression softens, her hand coming out to gently squeeze his forearm.

“I know, Lucifer. I was joking.”

“Well, I’m not,” he says, his tone a little firmer, “I’m not going anywhere. This is where I want to be, with you _and_ the child. Do you understand?”

Her bottom lips rolls between her teeth before she nods.

“I guess you do have no problem drinking out of Dan’s mug,” her lips twitch into a smile as she likely pictures him enjoying his morning 1 part coffee, 2 parts whiskey out of china brandishing _#1 Dad._

“Well, I do that partly to annoy Daniel, but yes,” he smirks before his expression turns serious again, “Darling, I would never presume to tell you how you can and can’t feel. It’s not my place to do so. But you have to understand… you have no reason to be insecure. I’m not going to run away because of a title. Your spawn can call me step-dad, step-devil, a _devilishly handsome_ houseguest—as long as she calls me. As long as I’m in her life.”

He watches the movement of her graceful throat as she swallows.

“Really?”

His lips twitch, a clawing sensation at his throat, and he suddenly realises what he needs to say. He knows how to get rid of this millstone around his neck, what he’s been so afraid of for so many years.

 _“You will, when you’re ready,”_ she had said before, “ _until then, you show me all the time.”_

But maybe one day that won’t be enough. Reading between the lines, in everything left unspoken, won’t be enough—and the fear of losing her far outweighs the fear of saying those three little words.

“I love that little urchin,” he says and then takes a breath, “just as I love you.”

He registers the way her lips fall open in surprise, her eyes widening. Then, they fill with tears.

“Detective, I’m sorry—” he reaches for her, “—I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, no…” she swallows heavily, and then just like that day in the kitchen all those years ago, when he told her John Decker would be proud of her, she shakes her head, breathes “shut up”, and grabs him.

She kisses him.

He lets out a little grunt of surprise but quickly melts into it. He can taste her tears and the wine she had at dinner and something else that’s uniquely _her_ —all peaches and Chanel. She deepens the kiss, her hands cupping his face, her tongue on his bottom lip, and he wants to lay her down. He wants to make love to her again and again and _show_ her how he feels, but there’s also so much more he needs to say.

He lets her swing a leg over his hip and straddle him before he pulls back.

“I want to have sex,” she says bluntly, ever the pragmatist, and her hips roll impatiently.

His mouth curves into a smile against her lips.

“I didn’t realise those three words were such an aphrodisiac.”

She smiles too and then sits up, her hands anchored on his chest.

“I’ve waited such a long time to hear them.”

Guilt curls through his chest.

“Forgive me.”

But she shakes her head, a furrow to her brow.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she insists, “I told you… they’re just words and you show me all the time. I accept your past, of course I do. What I said in the car that time, about wishing you’d never been with all the others… I didn’t mean it. But… as you like to remind me, I _am_ only human. I guess I let my insecurities get the better of me sometimes.”

“What are you insecure about?” he asks, his fingers dancing soothing circles on her thighs.

She bites her lip again, giving a small shrug, and his mind aches with a memory.

_That you don’t feel the same way that I feel about you._

This time, her words are slightly different to that day in the precinct, but the message is the same.

“That you don’t… want me the same way I want you.”

He raises a brow, a flat expression sweeping over his face.

“You know, after we’d… _done the deed_ , I used to say to Eve “give a devil a moment to recharge”, but with you? Look at me—” his eyes flicker pointedly to his lap where he’s still very much standing to attention, “—raring to go, the engine is always _hot._ ”

A lovely blush crawls up her neck, painting high on her cheekbones.

“Keep talking,” she mutters, likely annoyed at herself for being insecure because she was _never_ that type of girl.

“If it wasn’t obvious…” he starts, “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. Back then, now, _always_. And it's not just because of how stunningly, _overwhelmingly_ beautiful you are - though, of course, there is that.”

She nods but there’s still a hint of doubt on her face, passing over it like a shadow.

“But you’ve been with _so many_ people,” she says quietly, “can you really just be with _me_ now? Don’t you miss it?”

“Miss _what?_ ” he laughs a little humourlessly, “I’m not ashamed of all those people and _yes_ , it was fun drawing out all those forbidden desires, but they were all meaningless. That part of my life is over. I never understood monogamy before because I never _cared_ about anyone before—and they never cared about me.”

“Still… it’s a big change.”

“It is,” he concedes, “but being with you… darling, there’s no comparison. I’m losing nothing and gaining everything. Don’t you know how special you are?”

Her expression softens, her hands still stroking absently on his chest.

“I do… but if you wanted to tell me, that would be alright.”

The corner of his mouth tips into a smirk.

“How do I love thee?” he hums, “let me count the ways.”

He’s quoting a 19th century sonnet from Elizabeth Barrett Browning because he can wax poetical with the best of them—he _is_ the King of Desire, after-all—but the Detective’s expression is blank.

“Someone didn’t listen in class,” he croons, amused, and then adds, “I do _love_ a strong woman, Detective, and you are very strong indeed.”

She snorts, a little strange and lovely sound.

“Yeah, I guess this is where you tell me you _shagged_ Helen of Troy,” she puts on a frankly abysmal imitation of his accent and he grins.

“Insufferable bore,” he dismisses the notion, “ _Boudica_ , however…”

She rolls her eyes and swats at his chest and he continues listing the things he loves about her.

“I love how patient you are, and how understanding. Not only with me, but Daniel too. After everything he put you through, you try your hardest to co-parent with him and you’re even friends. You’re the most forgiving person I know, with the patience of a _saint_ —and I should know, I’ve met most of them.”

She laughs, leaning into his hand as he gently cups her cheek.

“I love that sound,” he murmurs, “I swear, there was a time when all I did was make you cry.”

“We both made mistakes,” she whispers, “we both wasted so much time.”

“I was an idiot,” he doesn’t let her take the blame, “I was stupid and afraid and focused on all the wrong things. First I ran away, then I got caught up in jealousy with Cain, then in _Eve_ , then in not being able to say the words—when really, I should have just _told_ you. I should have told you how I felt... how when we're apart, you're all I think about. I should have told you that you were— _are_ —the love of my life.”

Her eyes fill up again, her head turning so she can place a kiss on his palm.

“I love what a good mother you are, even if the ungrateful urchin _still_ does nothing to contribute to the rent. I love how kind you are and how dedicated. It would have been easy to stay in your acting career, perhaps do a sequel to that _wonderful_ film—” she rolls her eyes at his silken purr, “—but you were brave enough to follow what you thought was right. You always try and do the right thing.”

“Most of all…” he reaches his conclusion, “I love that you make me want to be a better man. You’ve changed me, Detective. I’ve never exactly been a man of faith—for obvious reasons—but _you_ had faith in me. You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.”

He stops short of telling her that _she_ is the religion he clings to, the closest he’s been to heaven since he fell.

He wipes away the first tear that falls from her eye, his thumb swiping across her cheekbone.

“Lucifer…” she breathes his name like a prayer, “what I feel for you… sometimes it’s so strong, it scares me.”

He knows the feeling.

He brings her down to him, his hands cupping her face, and with six words and one kiss, he melts her fear away.

“Don’t be scared,” he says, “I love you.”


End file.
